Jimmy Santiago Baca
It was a time when they were afraid of him.
My father, a bare man, a gypsy, a horse
with broken knees no one would shoot.
Then again, he was like the orange tree,
and young women plucked from him sweet fruit.
To meet him, you must be in the right place,
even his sons and daughter, we wondered
where was papa now and what was he doing.
He held the mystique of travelers
that pass your backyard and disappear into the trees.
Then, when you follow, you find nothing,
not a stir, not a twig displaced from its bough.
And then he would appear one night.
Half covered in shadows and half in light,
his voice quiet, absorbing our unspoken thoughts.
When his hands lay on the table at breakfast,
they were hands that had not fixed our crumbling home,
hands that had not taken us into them
and the fingers did not gently rub along our lips.
They were hands of a gypsy that filled our home
with love and safety, for a moment;
with all the shambles of boards and empty stomachs,
they filled us because of the love in them.
Beyond the ordinary love, beyond the coordinated life,
beyond the sponging of broken hearts,
came the untimely word, the fallen smile, the quiet tear,
that made us grow up quick and romantic.
Papa gave us something: when we paused from work,
my sister fourteen years old working the cotton fields,
my brother and I running like deer,
we would pause, because we had a papa no one could catch,
who spoke when he spoke and bragged and drank,
he bragged about us: he did not day we were smart,
nor did he say we were strong and were going to be rich someday.
He said we were good. he held us up to the world for it to see,
three children that were good, who understood love in a quiet way,
who owned nothing but calloused hands and true freedom,
and that is how he made us: he offered us to the wind,
to the mountains, to the skies of autumn and spring.
He said, “Here are my children! Care for them!”
And he left again, going somewhere like a child
with a warrior´s heart, nothing could stop him.
My grandmother would look at him for a long time,
and then she would say nothing.
She chose to remain silent, praying each night,
guiding down like a root in the heart of earth,
clutching sunlight and rains to her ancient breast.
And I am the blossom of many nights.
A threefold blossom: my sister is as she is,
my brother is as he is, and I am as I am.
Through sacred ceremony of living, daily living,
arose three distinct hopes, three loves,
out of the long felt nights and days of yesterday.
Jimmy Santiago Baca's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Ancestor by Jimmy Santiago Baca )
- Cold October Nights, Mikey Bachman
- Pilgrims, Suresh Dogra
- Arms of Rain, lakshmi s bose
- Once gone, Sentamu Aziz
- Misnomer, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- Retribution, Valsa George
- Complete Puzzle, Enyinwa Okechukwu Enyinwa
- Life, Faisal Qaiyum
- Kamala Das (II), Bijay Kant Dubey
- "American Exceptionalism", michael walkerjohn
Poem of the Day
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stars, Joyce Kilmer
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- All the World's a Stage, William Shakespeare
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Chocolate Cake, Michael Rosen
- Television, Roald Dahl
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
- Heather Burns
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge